It Was Only a Kiss
by 2girls1concussion
Summary: Kartik and Gemma's first two kisses from Kartik's point of view.
1. The Greatest Thing Since Breathing

It Was Only a Kiss

"I demand to see Mother Elena." The voice sounds familiar. I walk over to the centre of the camp. Hitting acorns with my cricket bat has stopped amusing me anyway.

I see one of Gemma's (_Miss Doyle_, I correct myself) friends from the lake standing defiantly in front of Ithal. I immediately realise why the voice sounded so familiar. It is the same voice that threatened me when I came across them the other night.

When I see Miss Doyle and the girl who stayed out of the water, I assume that this adventure of theirs to the Gypsy camp can only be dangerous. If they are asking to see Mother Elena, if _she_ wants to see Mother Elena, the Rakshana will not be pleased with me. How is that I cannot manage a young girl they will ask. I won't be able to give them an answer.

Miss Doyle's voice breaks through these thoughts. She simply reiterates their need to see Mother Elena.

This must have been the first thing she has said because Ithal looks at her as if he has just noticed that she is there. Of course he has a personal reason to look nowhere but at Miss Doyle's friend. He raises his hands in front of him in a relenting gesture. "Ah…this _gadje_ is yours. I apologise, friend," he says looking at Miss Doyle but still making it clear that he is talking to me.

My eyes briefly dart to Miss Doyle as I try to mask my mortification with an emphatic denial. Just because I have dreams doesn't mean that I want Miss Doyle to know that she is never far from my thoughts. Then I understand that by claiming her as mine, I can save her from someone else. I can let her run away and, at the same time, keep her from Mother Elena. With this in mind, I claim her and take her away from the circle of Gypsies.

My plan experiences a setback when a younger Gypsy takes her by the wrist as well. "How do we know she's yours? She does not seem so willing. Maybe she will come with me instead."

He has unknowingly voiced my secret insecurity: that she will never choose to be in my company. I cannot speak for a moment. The men find this silence rather humorous and laugh. I can't think of a response.

Before my challenger can claim her, Miss Doyle presses her lips to mine. My body relaxes. I can feel my temperature rising as the kiss continues. Though our lips are the only thing touching, it seems that my body has become hyper-sensitive to the location of hers. I can instantly calculate how much one of us would have to move in order to close the rather small but obviously present gap between our bodies. I wonder how to best close the gap. Should I just move? Should I wait for a sign that Gemma wants us to be closer? Do her lips on mine count as the sign? I want to be as close to her as is physically possible. My tongue appears to agree as it seeks admittance to her mouth.

For one glorious fraction of a second, I think she will allow the kiss to deepen. Her lips part just slightly, but that seems to bring her back to the woods, to the Gypsy camp, to the men and her two fellow adventurers watching us. She pulls away from me abruptly, and I try to keep a frown from my face.

During that surreal kiss, I had entertained the idea that Miss Doyle actually might feel same way I do. When she pulls away, I realise that this was a kiss of necessity. The truth is that, to her, I am simply the lesser of two evils. She would rather kiss me than subject herself to the whim of my challenger.

I take the girls to Mother Elena, my thoughts still reeling from her kiss. I understand very quickly that this is a gift I shall never receive again. I try to memorise the whole incident.

Once the two friends have gone into the tent, I pull her aside. "Just what do you think you're doing here?" I ask referring to her presence in the camp as well as her kiss.

"Having my fortune told," she says innocently. She is a terrible liar. "I apologise for my conduct. It was necessary under the circumstances. I hope you won't think me too forward."

I am right. A kiss of necessity, not of desire. This admission pains me more than it should. To release some of my pain, I take an acorn and hit it hard with my cricket bat. The bat is rubbish, the result unsatisfying. "I'll never hear the end of it from them later," I tell her, trying to keep emotion from my voice.

"Sorry to have put you out on my behalf."

I can't respond. Her formality stings. I need to change the subject. I remember the other girl from the lake. The pale one with the white shift. I remember that it was hard to look away from her, the wet clothe clinging to her body like a second skin and leaving little to the imagination. It was even harder not to imagine seeing Miss Doyle in such a state. I block that memory from my mind for the moment and focus on the missing conspirator. I ask where she is. Is she hiding in the woods?

"She's ill." Her voice has an odd edge to it.

"Nothing serious, I hope," I say out of politeness.

"Nothing serious. May I go in now?"

That means releasing her. But I can't keep her. I know that. The kiss was nothing to her. "Do not do this again," I tell her. The warning means so many things. I wonder if she understands them.

I walk back into the woods and to my tent. When I sleep, I dream of her lips on mine. I dream that we are alone and she does not pull away this time.


	2. It Was Only a Kiss

"Merry Christmas, Miss Doyle," I say, handing her the small bundle of cloth.

Gemma looks at me in surprise. "What is this?" she asks without removing the wrapping.

"Open it."

She does and examines the small blade.

"Megh Sambara," I say, noting her somewhat perplexed expression. "The Hindus believe that he offers protection against enemies."

"I thought you had no loyalty to any customs other than the Rakshana's."

I am a bit embarrassed at having my own words used to tease me. "It was Amar's." My voice is more gentle than I had intended.

"You shouldn't part with it then." She tries to hand it back and almost cuts me in the process.

"Careful. It is small but sharp. And you may have need of it."

I can see a frown trying to pull the corners of her mouth down. I have said something that she doesn't like. Still, she says, "I shall keep it with me. Thank you."

She is quiet, and I worry that she will leave soon if I do not find a topic of conversation that interests her. "Tonight is Miss Worthington's Christmas ball, yes?" I ask, hoping I have found the magic words that will keep her with me a bit longer.

"Yes."

"What do you do at these balls?" I ask, the image of her alone with Middleton flashing into my mind, though I would like more than anything to forget it completely.

"Oh, there is a great deal of smiling and talking of the weather and how lovely everyone looks. There is a light supper and refreshments. And the dancing, of course." She smiles a bit at this. I wonder if she is thinking about Middleton.

I interrupt her thoughts before they can go beyond him touching her hair. "I've never been to a ball. I don't know how this sort of dancing is done." And when I saw them together, they certainly were _not_ dancing.

She does not seem to notice my unpleasant tone. "It isn't so difficult to master for a man. The woman has to learn to do it in reverse without stepping on his feet."

I lift my hands, holding them in the air where I imagine they would rest on Gemma. "Like this?" I ask as I turn around in a circle.

"A bit slower. That's it," she says, the hint of a smile emerging.

"I say, Lady Whatsit, have you had many callers since arriving in London?" I ask in my most posh English accent.

"Oh, Lord Hoity-toity," she responds in an equally exaggerated posh accent. "Why, I've had so many cards from the very best people that I've had to put out two china bowls to display them all."

"Two bowls, you say?"

"Two bowls."

"What an inconvenience to you and your china collection," I say as I laugh. I'm so happy that she chose to play along with my little game, even though I know I shouldn't want to keep her in the mews with me.

"I should like to see you in a black jacket and white tie," she says when my laughter has died.

I stop turning my imaginary Gemma. I almost don't believe what she has just said. I might have imagined that, as well. "Do you think I would look the grand gentleman?"

"Yes." Such a simple answer, and yet it carries so much weight.

I gather up all my courage and bow to her. "May I have this dance, Miss Doyle?"

She curtsies. "Of course, Lord Hoity-toity."

I could let her pretend that this is a continuation of our game, but I want her to know that _I_ want to dance with _her_. I want her to accept _my_ invitation. "No," I say my voice quiet with uncertainty. "May _I_ have this dance?"

Her face flushes and she looks about to see if anyone might have overheard. She is going to decline; I can feel it. I cannot blame her. It is terribly scandalous to dance in the stable with the servants. We would both be punished, one of us more severely than the other. I wouldn't expect her to take that risk just to dance with me.

I feel my temperature rise a bit when her cold hand reaches out for mine. She is going to dance with me after all! Gemma _chose_ to dance with _me_.

"Ah, your, um, your other hand would be at my waist," she says, looking down.

I take the opportunity to stare at her fiery hair. I don't think she has yet brushed it. Was she in a hurry to see me? "Here?" I ask, placing my hand on her side.

"Higher." Her voice sounds a bit strangled. I move my hand up to her waist. "That's it."

My hand seems to fit perfectly with the curve of her waist. I wonder if she notices this as well. "What next?" I ask.

"We, we dance."

I turn around in slow circles. We are too far apart to move gracefully. She doesn't look at me. She watches our feet move. It pains me to know that she is the one putting this distance between us. I note that it is far greater than the distance she allowed Middleton.

After a few moments of our odd attempt at dancing, I say, "I think it would be easier if you weren't pulling away."

"This is how it's done," she answers curtly and unconvincingly.

I don't allow myself to over think my next action. I pull her to me, close enough that I could wrap my arm around her. Gemma searches the stable for any witnesses to our impropriety and finds none. I decide to give in to temptation and place my hand on her back. She gasps, whether from delight or scandal I do not know.

We continue twirling in slow but steady circles, but she does not look at me. I knit my brows as I watch her. My mission is to kill her. I am supposed to kill the girl who is now in my arms. I know I won't be able to do it. I care too much for her already. I decide I have a new mission: to protect Gemma from the Rakshana. After she binds the magic, I will take her far away and tell them that I have killed her. Or maybe I won't tell them anything. Maybe I will stay with her.

"Gemma," I say, boldly using her Christian name aloud. She finally meets my eye. I decide to tell her that I have given up my mission. That I am going to save her. "There is something I must tell you…"

She breaks away from me and stands with her hand on her stomach, as though she is ill.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

She smiles a bit and nods. "The cold," she lies. I can tell that she is lying. "Perhaps I should be getting back."

I try one more time to tell her that I am sacrificing the Rakshana for her. "But first I need to tell you—"

"There's so much to do," she says a bit too loudly. She does not want to hear whatever it is she thinks I am going to say next.

"Well, then. Don't forget your gift."

When I hand her the blade, our hands touch. I only wait a moment before doing what I dream of so often. Her lips are warm on mine. I can feel her sigh a little. I allow myself to think that she has dreamed of this, too.

But then she breaks away. "Please don't."

"It's because I am Indian, isn't it?" I ask, blaming society. I know we can never be together the way I want.

"Of course not. I don't even think of you as an Indian."

It is as though she has stabbed me with my own gift. I try to act stronger than I feel and laugh at the statement. After all, it is absurd that I should ever think that she would choose me over Middleton. She doesn't even think of me as Indian. Does she even think of me as a _man_? "So you don't even think of me as Indian. Well, that is a tremendous relief."

"I—I didn't mean it like that." Her face pales as she realises that she has just insulted me horribly.

"You English never do." I leave the stables, angry at both of us. She follows me.

I begin to pack my belongings into my rucksack. She watches for a moment, as though she doesn't know what to say that will bring us back to the time we laughed about calling cards in china bowls. But it is too late to go back to that.

After I have put everything into the bag, she asks, "Where are you going?"

"To the Rakshana. It is time for me to claim my place. To begin my training and advance." I avoid her eyes, choosing to look at all my worldly possessions instead. There is not much at which I can look.

"Please don't go, Kartik. I don't want you to go." She sounds honest and pitiful.

"For that I am sorry for you."

Servants are beginning to appear. Soon one of them will see us. I would hate for Miss Doyle to face such a scandal. I look back at my rucksack, seeing the small bundle that sits next to it.

"You'd best go in. Would you be so kind as to give this to Emily for me?" I hand her the gift, my worn copy of _The Odyssey_. Emily will be thrilled to have it, though perhaps sad to discover her teacher has left. "Tell her I am sorry I cannot continue teaching her to read. She'll have to get someone else."

"Kartik," she begins, but nothing follows. She seems to search the mews for something to hold me. Me, the not-even-Indian. "Don't you want to take the cricket bat?"

"Cricket. Such an English game," I scoff. "Goodbye, Miss Doyle." I take my rucksack and leave without looking back. I wonder if I can trade this mission in for another. While I never want to see Miss Doyle again, I doubt that I am capable of killing her. I walk down the twisting streets of the West End, trying to think of anything but Miss Doyle's lips on mine.


End file.
